


Black on White

by Irony_Rocks



Category: Stonehenge Apocalypse (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-02
Updated: 2010-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-10 21:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irony_Rocks/pseuds/Irony_Rocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she hands him back his ring, he tips her a smirk and says, "Keep it. It looks better on you anyway."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black on White

* * *

When she hands him back his ring, he tips her a smirk and says, "Keep it. It looks better on you anyway."

* * *

She wears black because it's a funeral and it's what you're supposed to do. It's also one of the only three suits she has with her. It's strange, standing there, listening to eulogies and accepting condolences without really hearing the words. Guilt chokes at her. All those people that died in Salisbury. Marla. John. God, she can remember first meeting John over six years ago. He'd asked her out; she'd said no. He never once indicated that he'd held that against her; most men weren't that dignified.

Jacob stands beside her when they lower the caskets, and she wonders what it would have been like, if he'd died as well. If he hadn't made it out of Stonehenge at the last second, she would be attending Jacob's funeral right now – an empty casket being lowered into the ground instead of a filled one. Would the world ever really have known what he'd done, then? She thinks, strangely, his death would have affected her the most despite the fact that she'd barely known him a day.

She thanks God it never came to that.

Afterwards, she seeks solitude and finds Jacob instead, sitting in the back corner of the hotel bar, drinking a beer. She orders scotch with a bit of lemon juice and vermouth. _A Black Jack_, her ex-husband used to call it. They sit side-by-side, quietly for the first few minutes. She starts several times, only to shut her mouth because she can't think of a bloody thing to say.

"Joseph isn't getting a funeral," he tells her.

Silently, she doesn't think the man deserves one. He tried to kill everyone on the planet. He deserves no homage, the raving lunatic. She keeps silent out of respect to Jacob, though. Zealot or not, Joseph was the one and only friend that Jacob had for years. She can't imagine what it'd be like to lose that, much less be betrayed in the manner and fashion that Jacob was.

"I'm sorry," she says.

For what, for who, she doesn't know. She can't think of anything else to say.

"Me, too," Jacob replies, bitterly, and he takes another swig of his beer.

* * *

He leads the way down the ladder, and it's a bit tricky, with her left arm in a sling and no railings, but Jacob steadies her with a hand on her waist until she hits solid ground again. His basement is exactly what she expects, and at any earlier point in her life, it would have scared her off, right-quick. But she's changed now, and things are different, and besides, she always hated judging a book by its cover anyway.

He gives her the dime tour, pointing to the ream of papers stacked at one side, info on the electromagnetic data that first set him off towards England. "So," he continues awkwardly, shifting on the balls of his feet, hands in his pocket. "I don't really let a lot of people down here."

Kaycee tips him a small smile as she fingers through some clippings of old newspaper articles. On the board behind her, they're some more articles – some that look, genuinely, the turn-of-the-century. The 19th century. She's quiet at first, just observing and absorbing everything around her. The walls are dull off-white and plaster, and it looks like almost every square inch of it is covered. Maps, newspapers, a boardroom with post-its and strings and a mad amalgamation of text she can't make sense out of. She doesn't even try. The radio set-up sits alone in the center, cluttered and messy.

"It's exactly… _you_," she tells him, with a pivot on her high heels.

He tips his head and narrows his eyes. "Is that a good thing?"

She smiles. "Yeah, that's a good thing."

Jacob just smiles back.

* * *

In the weeks following the almost-end-of-the-world, her life reaches past the tipping point of utter insanity. Between the press conferences, the upcoming UN hearings and scheduled visit to the White House, she hasn't had a moment of peace since leaving the hospital. The press and the military knock at her door every five minutes in alternates, and Kaycee thinks bitterly that she never signed up for any of this. She's a doctor. A scientist. Not a spectacle.

But she's also the only surviving member of the senior staff held responsible for the Stonehenge Apocalypse (as the press have oh-so-cleverly dubbed it), so she's the sole voice for any blame and any credit.

Well, not the sole voice.

"Hey," she calls Jacob's hotel room up, one door down from hers. "You want to get out of here?"

Less than fifteen seconds later, there's a knock at her door.

"Quickly," he tells her, "I think if we use the staff exit at the back, we might be able to avoid the legion of press."

"Oh, god, they found us again? We've switched hotels three times!"

"Honestly, I don't think they ever lost us."

She grimaces, grabbing her coat. Five minutes later, when they bypass the mob by using the back alley exit, he leans over and jokes, "So, this is what happens when you save the world? Kinda makes you wish we'd failed, doesn't it?"

* * *

Her sling takes some getting used to. It gets in the way of writing, of driving, of eating and drinking and showering and a thousand other everyday things. She isn't one that often lets frustration get the better of her, but she learned long ago that there's nothing she hates more in the world than being helpless.

"Here," Jacob offers, helping to shrug on her coat.

His fingers are warm against the column of her neck, and Kaycee has to repress the sudden urge to sink back into his touch, let it linger for a moment longer than necessary. It passes just as quickly, and she chides herself for feeling it even for an instant. Jacob is just a friend. A close friend, fast becoming her only touchstone to sanity these days.

"D.C. is going to be crazy weather," he tells her. "You're gonna need a thicker coat when we head there next week."

"God, don't remind me," she grouses. "I hate politics."

He grins. "Preaching to the choir."

* * *

Her first thought: the President of the United States is taller than she expected. Her second thought: well, she doesn't really have one. Her mind goes blank, staring at the most powerful man on the face of the planet, and it's suddenly like she can't remember her own name. Thankfully, she doesn't have to do anything right now other than smile and wave for the cameras out in front of the Rose Garden.

_Photo-op_.

After the flashbulbs have blinded her, possibly permanently, they're lead into the White House through double doors flung open. The hallways are all hues of pale red, dark blue and creams with specks of gold. There's an entourage behind her, and the President in front of her, leading the way towards the Oval Office. The only thing that's keeping Kaycee moving is Jacob's hand at the small of her back, warm and reassuring.

"So," the President says. "I'm told you two saved the world. We've got a lot to talk about."

Kaycee feels like her knees are going to give way under her.

Jacob pivots to face him, undaunted in the slightest. "Actually, if you don't mind, I doubt I'm gonna get this opportunity again so I've got to ask something about the space program."

The President smiles knowingly. "I was warned about you. I hear you have some theories about the moon and aliens?"

"It wasn't aliens, sir," Jacob bites out, with a long-suffering sigh. "It was a robot's head."

* * *

She leaves for two weeks to return home, just to tie up some loose ends, but she's coming right back because the American government has offered her a lucrative job with the Department of Agriculture. She speaks with Jacob every night over the phone between dinner and whatever work is left front of her. Things are still hectic, and the press hasn't forgotten about her, but they've sucked her dry of any information and so they're focusing their energy on other avenues. Kaycee thanks God for that. She was never born for the spotlight; she hates it with a passion, in fact.

Jacob, on the other hand – she wonders if he weren't born for this. He isn't shy with the press. He never silences his thoughts, and his radio show is now a world-wide phenomena, streamed on the web for free. When she does interviews, Kaycee deliberates and frames each response in mind, in advance, but he just calls it from his gut. She admires that. She also admires the way he's always so unruffled, no matter what. She isn't used to ridicule or second-guessing; she came from a career that began promising and then leapfrogged over everyone's expectations. Now, though, even though her actions regarding the Stonehenge disaster are seen as heroic and clever by many, there are still pockets that hold her responsible for the unwarranted deaths of so many millions.

On CNN, once, she saw footage from China where she was burned in effigy.

She doesn't know how to handle that.

"You ignore it," Jacob tells her.

"Just like that? Without regard?"

"Yeah, because one day, if you're lucky like me, things will change."

"What?" She smiles wryly. "Hopefully I'll prove them wrong about every preconception they ever had about me by saving the world?"

(Again, she silently adds.)

"No," he answers swiftly over the phone. "You don't have to change everybody's opinion of you. That's impossible. But sometimes, one person's opinion is enough."

_Y'know, the trust you've placed in me, it's validated my work. Maybe my life._

There's a long pause where Kaycee can't answer, and for once she's thankful that he's not here in person because then he can't see the blush spreading across her face. It's in these moments where she wonders – truly debates internally, back and forth, back and forth – if what she has with Jacob is more than just friendship.

"Anyway," Jacob continues, oblivious to her thoughts, "It's the Chinese. I've long suspected that they've been covering up evidence of extraterrestrial landings. Roswell is for tourists. The real spaceship landed in the Anhui province in '64."

* * *

When she gets back, she doesn't waste time in getting a new place and Jacob helps her move in. She can't define the exact moment he became her closest friend, but it somehow happened. She supposes that saving the world together bonds people, because somewhere along the way, she started relying on him in the way she's never relied on people she's known all her life. In those moments, she's glad they're just friends. She's never had a person like Jacob in her life, someone the total opposite of her and yet could still completely understand her. The yin to her yang. She doesn't want to upset that.

But she catches him staring sometimes, a little too keenly. She feigns ignorance to the way his eyes sometimes track her across the room, but she notices because… well, she's watching too.

"God, you've got too much furniture," he grumbles. "Do you really need all this stuff?"

She grins, teasing. "Yes. Not that'd I'd expect you to understand that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I've been to your place, remember? Calling it the quintessential bachelor pad wouldn't be all that off its mark."

"Hey, it's got style."

"Style?" she repeats dubiously, one eyebrow lifted.

"I'm not the one with a million and one throw pillows on her bed. Do you really need all of those? It must take you an hour to get into bed."

"At least I have a proper bed. You sleep on the couch ninety percent of the time!"

"I'm a low-maintenance guy. I like when things are comfortable."

Truthfully, she likes it that way, too.

* * *

The tabloids are worse than anything else, making up things left and right. Kaycee honestly doesn't get that. The reality of the situation isn't outrageous enough, but certain papers have to make it even more unbelievable? Little green aliens, Artificial Intelligence, Bigfoot even makes an appearance, and Kaycee is left highly unamused when they start gossiping about the supposed lovechild she has with Jacob. Which, just… _what?_

"These people," she snaps in frustration, one late afternoon, throwing down the newspaper. "Where do they get this stuff?"

Jacob goes silent for a beat too long, and she turns towards him and immediately realizes how that sounds. What it means to him. For years he was called a crackpot, a nut job, a conspiracy theorist off his meds. She doesn't and never has clumped him in that group, but she knows that secretly, silently, Jacob has a chip on his shoulder the size of Alaska. Even after he was proven right (in way that no person has ever been before), he still carries the same self-effacing aura of a man that no one ever believed. He expects disbelief and ridicule; he's been trained his entire life to endure it.

Sometimes, she catches this look on his face, like he's surprised she's still around, that she listens to him at all. Kaycee would find it endearing if she wasn't so concerned about the attitude underlying it.

"Hey," she prompts, drawing his gaze. "You know I didn't mean it like that."

He plays dumb. "Mean it like what?"

Instead of answering, she reaches across the table and places her hand over his, the touch gentle and reassuring. He surprises her when he immediately turns his palm over, taking her hand into his. She wonders at that. Normally he's a man that keeps to himself, careful of personal space, but she suddenly realizes that maybe he craves contact as much as, if not more than, the average person.

She wonders if Jacob is really being as obvious about his feelings in that moment as she thinks he is – or if it's her imagination acting wild and rampant, guessing at motives that aren't really there.

The moment is crushed when the waiter stops by. "Will you be ordering dessert?"

Jacob sits back and covers with a timid smile. "No, thanks. Check, please."

* * *

She flips on the channel and watches Jacob's interview with MSCBC.

"Scientists may have identified the first source of energy that allowed the creation of life," the anchorman says. "An obscure compound known as pyrophosphite could have been a source of energy that started it all. With me tonight is eminent scientist, Dr. Jacob Glaser, who needs no introduction at all. Welcome, Doctor."

The interview goes fine. Jacob explains the details as simply as he can, with his normal hand-gesturing and usual flare. Kaycee curls up on her sofa, legs tucked under her, and she figures the dialogue is going so well that she doesn't need to watch it. She knows all the details of Jacob's newest theory. She's always the first to hear them, if not the one to help him formulate it in the first place.

She gets up briefly to make a cup of green tea, and when she returns, she realizes something bad must have happened in the interview because Jacob looks flustered and angry now.

"Now, wait just a minute!" Jacob bites out, "You can't go making accusations like that."

"As I understand it," the interviewer replies calmly, "You were in the business of making wild accusations without a shred of proof."

Jacob's eyes narrow, face flushing, and she's never seen him so angry. She wonders what the anchorman said that set him off because he usually doesn't get so ruffled by the normal name-calling and ridicule.

"I'm only going to say this once," Jacob says, lowly and with a bit of menace. "Dr. Leed's professionalism and conduct is above reproach. She was the only member of her staff that knew the figures weren't adding up, and she was willing to think outside the box. For you to sit here now and criticize her for—"

"I'm only stating the facts," the anchorman argues. "Dr. Leed's professional opinion was obviously compromised by her emotional state. We have information from several sources—"

"What sources?" Jacob demands. "Facts, my ass. Look, attack me all you like. But Kaycee Leeds is one of the most dedicated, professional and brilliant scientists I have ever met. You call into question her judgments, then I call into question your intelligence."

He gets up from his seat during a live interview, unclips his mike and throws it down, walking away without another word. Kaycee doesn't really hear what the interviewer does to cover for it. She stands there, the cup of green tea cooling in her hands, still a little shell-shocked that the argument was about _her_.

She's never seen Jacob that upset before.

* * *

_Should old acquaintance be forgot   
And never brought to mind?  
Should old acquaintance be forgot,  
And auld lang syne!_

She spends New Years at Jacob's, but there's no celebration. He's sick to his stomach from the flu, throwing up for the second time tonight. She stands in the back of the bathroom, waiting for him to empty his stomach. Grimacing in sympathy, when he's finally done she hands him some paper towels to wipe his face.

"You shouldn't be here," he protests. "Go out. Have fun. You didn't get all dressed up just to give me the opportunity to throw up on you."

She grimaces again. "It's alright. The party sounded boring anyway."

Truthfully, it hadn't. All week, she'd been looking forward to this night-out. She even brought a new dress (a blue one, stylish and slender, worth a fifth of her paycheck). She spent the last two hours pinning her hair up in elegant curls; she can't remember the last time she could be bothered with the task. But plans turned on their heads when she showed up at Jacob's to pick him up, and found him curled up in a fetal position on the couch, groaning what should have been a death-groan.

Grown men were such babies at times.

"C'mon," she tells him, ushering back into the living room. "I'll make you some soup. My mother's recipe can knock the wind out of anything."

He collapses on his sofa, looking far too miserable. "You look nice," he tells her. "I didn't want to spend the evening like this either."

She shrugs like it doesn't matter to her one way or another. "You'll owe me one."

"I'm a genius at numbers, remember? I'm pretty sure I owe you more than that."

* * *

At work, people have finally stopped treating her like she's a celebrity; she's just starting to feel normal again – and then her birthday comes around, a national spectacle. God, it's _embarrassing_. She just wants to curl up in solitude and hide out at her apartment, but she endures the entire day with the spotlight on her. Again. It becomes so unbearable that she skips out at five instead of working the usual 10-hour day.

When she finally makes it to her apartment building, past the doorman and the armed guard (for her protection), she rides the elevator up with two neighbors who use the time to ask her about another Stonehenge theory, this one having to do with Merlin and the Knights of the Round Table. She humors the questions, but in the back of her head, she's counting down the seconds before the door pings open. When she finally makes it into her apartment, she lets out a sigh of relief. A bottle of campaign, some quiet music, and a good book. That's all she wants out of the remainder of her 38th birthday. She takes a fresh shower and emerges out in a white bath towel when she hears someone jostling open the front door.

For a moment, she panics. Death threats from insane zealots flash through her mind, and she grabs the baseball bat she keeps by her bedside table, clutching it desperately. When the door creaks open, she's surprised and relieved to find Jacob entering with bags of groceries. She nearly collapses with relief; she'd forgotten that she'd given him a key.

Jacob spots her standing in the bedroom doorway. He looks gobsmacked, and finally asks, "What are you doing here?"

She stares at him. "What am I doing here? I live here! What are you doing here?!"

He pauses, looking sheepish. "I thought you'd be at work until 8, like normal. I wanted to cook you dinner for your birthday."

_Oh._

He sets the grocery bags on the table in the corridor, and she walks over to lift out a double-layered chocolate cake, store-bought. She feels herself smiling a little, only to look up and catch a flush on Jacob's face. It occurs to her that she should probably get dressed, so she quietly excuses herself and dons on a pale green shirt and some jeans. When she emerges back out, she finds Jacob in the kitchen, already getting dinner cooking – nothing fancy, just pasta.

"I didn't know you could cook."

He rolls his eyes. "Contrary to popular speculation, I'm not a grown man that lives with his mother. I make do fine on my own."

* * *

The dinner has lively conversation.

She slides in a joke about his surprising prowess with a stove, but it's an old gag that's been played over twice tonight. He tosses back his own flippant words and refills both glasses of wine, and they trade stories about what they've done in the previous three days since they've last seen each other. The conversation is lighthearted and free-flowing, trading back and forth superficial details and the latest scientific theories they've heard. She tells him about the one her neighbors shared with her in the elevator, and Jacob laughs.

"Thanks," she tells him, when they're bidding goodnight at the door. "I think this is just what I needed tonight. A nice quiet dinner with a close friend."

He pauses, and she isn't imagining it, she's not – but she catches a look of disappointment on his face. When he moves forward, just one step, it's enough to invade her personal space. The mood changes from carefree to something heavy in an instant, and she suddenly can't find her breath.

"Is that all we are?" he asks her, in a soft voice, all gravelly. "Just friends?"

He gives her a look while he says it, and she can't describe it, not by half, but it makes her heart race. She wants to drop her gaze, because the intensity is enough to make her falter. A man can look at you with desire, or he can look at you with respect. Rarely the two at the same time.

"Don't you think we deserve to know?" he asks her. "If this could be more?"

She can't find her voice. A part of her is desperately curious. The other part is terrified beyond belief. It's strange that Jacob can inspire such conflicting emotions, because for the most part he makes her feel safe and comfortable. The best friend she ever had. It's a scary thought to jeopardize that, even for the possibility of something more.

"Jacob," she says, but then he kisses her.

She doesn't resist, not even for a split-second. It's light, and soft, and not at all like any other first kiss she's ever had. Jacob's lips tastes like the chocolate cake they just had for dessert, and a part of her melts into him without even thinking. But the part that _does_ think, the part always functioning and thinking and rationalizing, can't help but noticing that this? It makes sense. It feels right. What is it about this man that can always short-circuit the rational part of her brain, lending herself open to possibilities that should seem too farfetched and scary?

When they pull back, Jacob says, "Happy Birthday, Kaycee."

She smiles softly. "Happy Birthday, indeed."

* * *

  
_fin_


End file.
